


their rage is well known

by brinnanza



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: (referenced but it occurs off page), Child Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon, al-tahangst, don't make your daughters perform emotional labor they're unqualified for, hands up if you personally would like to beat saleh sr to death with a sock full of nickels, no I'm not projecting I have no idea what you could be talking about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-22 09:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22980283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: It’s not fair. And Saira knows well enough that life is not fair, but that doesn’t stop her wanting to stamp her foot petulantly on the ground and demand better. It’s not fair that this responsibility falls on her, even though she’s 14 and hardly more than a child herself. It’s not fair that Aziza got to leave, that she left Saira and Hamid behind. It’s not fair that Hamid, just barely turned ten, is sobbing in her lap because she’s the only comfort that won’t turn him away.
Relationships: Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan & Saira al-Tahan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 70





	their rage is well known

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to the cairo arc again and was filled with equal parts bad dad rage and tiny halfling protection instincts and this just sort of happened. granted I am doing some ummm let's say _extrapolating_ from the text but also hamid's father _threw a chair_ I don't think it's unreasonable to think he might have slapped his kids once or twice. we don't know enough about hawaa for me to make any real judgements but like I get a vibe that definitely has nothing to do with my own experiences shh I don't know what you mean
> 
> title's from the mechs actaea and lyssa bc sibs

Saira hears the sniffling first, the deep, shaky breaths that mean someone is struggling not to cry, followed by a polite knock. She sets aside the book she’d been reading and goes to answer. She’s barely cracked the door open before the small form of her younger brother barrels into her, arms wrapping tight around her waist. Whatever composure he’d been maintaining in the hall shatters, and he buries his face in her stomach and sobs.

He’s speaking, she thinks, trying to explain or apologize, but his voice is too muffled to make out. “Oh, Hamid,” she murmurs, smoothing one hand over his hair. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s move onto the bed, okay?”

He pulls back from her, still sobbing, and Saira can see that it’s not just his eyes that are red - there’s a mark on his cheek as well. It doesn’t look as though it will bruise, and even now it’s fading under the torrent of tears that spill down Hamid’s face. It can’t possibly hurt badly enough to explain Hamid’s hysterical sobbing, but Saira knows well enough that it’s not the pain.

She sits up against the headboard and opens her arms. Hamid crawls onto the bed, throwing his arms around her neck. He’s nearly too big to fit in her lap, the way he’s been growing like a weed, but she makes it work. 

He’s crying in earnest now, not even a token attempt to keep quiet. Saira just rubs his back, murmuring soothing nonsense into his hair until he’s calmed enough to tell her what’s happened. Not that she needs him to say it - there’s only one thing that can upset him this much.

Father.

“You’re alright, I’ve got you,” Saira murmurs. Her voice is carefully soft, gentle through both effort and practice as something white-hot and furious bubbles up in her chest. She swallows it down, holds Hamid close as his shoulders tremble under the force of his sobs. She can be angry later, when Hamid is feeling better, when she’s alone again in the sanctity of her bedroom, free to scream her impotent rage into a pillow.

It’s not fair. And Saira knows well enough that life is not fair, but that doesn’t stop her wanting to stamp her foot petulantly on the ground and demand better. It’s not fair that this responsibility falls on her, even though she’s 14 and hardly more than a child herself. It’s not fair that Aziza got to leave, that she left Saira and Hamid behind. It’s not fair that Hamid, just barely turned ten, is sobbing in her lap because she’s the only comfort that won’t turn him away.

She loves Hamid, fiercely, with every scrap of it she can muster, will sheild him from whatever she can, but it is _not fair_.

Eventually, Hamid’s sobs settle into sniffles, and he wriggles around in her lap until his back is against her chest, his head against her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to,” he whispers, and his voice is timid and hoarse from tears.

“I know,” Saira says. She presses a kiss against the crown on his head. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Hamid nods and takes a shuddery breath, tears still clinging to his eyelashes. “I just wanted to hold it for a second. I didn’t think it would be that heavy, and then it slipped out of my hands and…”

Saira is pretty sure she knows what he’s talking about. There’s a crystal paperweight on their father’s desk, perfectly round and smooth as glass. Hamid’s not allowed in the study - none of them are unless they’re in trouble - but Hamid’s never been very good at following rules. She’d caught him sneaking in and out of there more than once, not to mention all the times he’s been called in to be yelled at.

“Did it hurt you?” Saira asks, because she has to. “No cuts or bruises?” Hamid shakes his head, and Saira lets out a slow exhale. It’s not that she thinks Father would deliberately ignore an injury while angry, but he doesn’t like weakness. He’s yelled at Hamid more than once for crying over some relatively minor injury, and Saira wouldn’t put it past Hamid to hide if he’d been hurt. He won’t lie to her at least, not about that.”

“It didn’t even break,” Hamid says, and his voice is a little stronger now. “But it was really loud and it smashed into one of the fiddly bits on the corner of the desk and Father was so _angry_ with me and - and-” He breaks off as he starts to cry again, and Saira wraps her arms around him, rocking him gently. 

“He hit you,” Saira says, and it isn’t a question.

Hamid nods. “And he said - he said, ‘stop crying Hamid; you’re embarrassing yourself.’” Hamid’s voice dips lower to imitate their father, but it wobbles so much he can hardly get the words out. “He said ‘You’re worse than the twins, and they’re infants.’ But I’m not - I’m not a _baby_! Right, Saira?” He looks up at her with wide, wet eyes, reaching for her hand to clasp in his.

“No darling, of course not,” Saira says, and the unfairness of it all burns hot in her chest. She’s learned well enough how to avoid her father’s temper, how to keep herself small and obedient and silent, but Hamid is far too impetuous to be able to lock himself away. “Do you remember what ‘Ziza told you before she left?”

“That it’s okay to cry when something hurts,” Hamid repeats dutifully. He sniffs. “I wish she was still here.”

 _So do I_ , Saira thinks but does not say. Aziza was always so much better at this, at finding just the right words to make Hamid smile again, at brushing away Saira’s own frustrated tears. “We’ll see her again soon,” she says instead. “The end of term isn’t that far off.”

Hamid opens his mouth to respond, but he’s cut off by a jaw-cracking yawn. He scoots lower in her arms until he’s nearly horizontal and blinks up at her sleepily. His fingers are still curled around her own, unwilling to let go of her just yet.

“Do you want to take a little nap?” Saira asks, and Hamid makes a little affirmative noise, eyelids drooping. She rearranges them a bit so Hamid’s head is pillowed on her thigh. She won’t be able to move without waking him, but she can still reach her book, at least. Her tear-soaked blouse will just have to dry on its own. 

She cards her fingers through Hamid’s hair and watches as his breaths even out and deepen as he falls asleep. His face is smooth and round in sleep, tear tracks staining his cheeks, and oh, Saira loves him, but that anger within her bubbles up again. It’s far too large a burden for her to bear on her own, making sure her little brother is safe, that he knows he is loved, that it is not a weakness to cry. He should be able to seek out their mother’s comfort, shouldn’t need it because of someone who’s meant to love him and take care of him.

What is the point of money, Saira thinks fiercely, if it can’t protect the people you love?

Hamid’s breaths whistle just a little on the inhale, and Saira remembers the promise she’d made when Aziza had left for university.

“You’ll have to be the big sister now,” Aziza had said, and rarely had Saira seen her more serious. “Watch out for Hamid if you can. Make sure he doesn’t go cold, like Father and Saleh. He’s not… he can be better than that.”

“I will, Saira had said solemnly. “I promise.” And then Aziza had cupped her face in one hand, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and embraced her tight.

“I love you, Saira,” Aziza had said. “And I’m… I’m sorry.”

Saira doesn’t resent her sister for leaving, not really. Those first few weeks had been hard, trying to comfort Hamid when Mother turned him away on Father’s orders, as if you could cauterize the pain of absence with more of the same. And Saira had done her best to push through the storm, even as wind and sand choked her until she could barely breathe, because she’d known, even then, that it was necessary. She knows Aziza couldn’t stay forever, that Saira herself will follow as soon as she is able.

She knows she can’t protect Hamid forever. But for now, at least, as he sleeps beside her, he is safe.


End file.
